twenty

We dropped off the tire behind the garage and got back to the motel around eleven. As tempted as I was to invite Michael in, I settled for making out at the door. He made it easier by saying he had a few things to check out before he headed back to his motel. He promised to call me in the morning.

I stood outside and watched him go. Was this something? It felt like something.

YET AGAIN, I’D been dropped off for the night, but had no intention of staying in. Days were for interviewing witnesses and following leads; nights were for breaking into places. I wanted to get into Cody’s office and, if I could, exact a little revenge for this afternoon.

One problem with this plan? Cody’s office, according to my map of Columbus, was on the outskirts, near the sawmill. He had another in Vancouver, but I suspected I stood a better chance of finding something damning here. There had to be plenty of buildings in Columbus that would make nicer—and more convenient—offices. So why would you keep a place out there? Only if you had business you didn’t want to conduct in town.

First, then, I needed my bike. The garage was a couple of blocks away. Columbus wasn’t exactly a dangerous place to wander at night, so I headed over.

My bike was inside a side bay, which the resident mechanic kid had either forgotten to lock or never bothered to. I rolled out my bike, got my tire, took my tool kit, and set to work.

In the half hour I was there, two cars passed the Main Street intersection. The lack of activity only made me extra cautious. I’d cast a perimeter spell around the lot so I could concentrate on changing the tire. When I was finishing up, someone breached the spell, setting off a mental alarm.

I looked up sharply. I stood. Even called out a “Hello?” just to let the intruder know I’d noticed him. Silence answered.

I cast a sensing spell. Yep, definitely a presence. A human-size one.

There was only one streetlamp near the garage, and my bike was under it. The full moon vanished behind clouds. When I stepped past the circle of light, I had to squint into the shadows. A flashlight would have helped. But I had a spell-powered one, so why would I weigh down my saddlebags with that? Well, maybe if I was being stalked by a human who shouldn’t see me tossing a ball of light into the air.

I cupped my hand and cast the light ball inside it, to look like a flashlight. Kind of. Then I strode toward the garage, the light leading the way.

Metal tinkled across asphalt, like someone had kicked a screw. It came from the west side of the shop. I extinguished the light and ran that way just in time to see the heels of someone darting around the corner. White soles. Sneakers.

Knockback spell at the ready, I rounded the rear of the garage. Empty. There was, however, a convenient Dumpster. I slid off my boots and crept along the wall until I was beside the bin. I listened and flexed my fingers, ready to cast at the first squeak of a shoe. When all stayed silent, I whispered a sensing spell. It came back positive.

Cardboard boxes were scattered around the base. I found the sturdiest, grabbed the edge of the bin, and swung up onto the box. It started to collapse just as I lifted off it.

The top of the bin was dented and filled with what I prayed was rainwater, not garbage sludge. I pushed to my feet and took one slow step across, knockback spell prepped to send my stalker reeling back the moment he noticed—

A sharp intake of breath. Above me. I wheeled to catch only a glimpse of someone dressed in black before he plummeted off the other side of the roof. Footsteps pounded pavement. I jumped down and tore off, but by the time I reached the street, it was empty.

I stood on the sidewalk. Looked left. Looked right. Nothing. Shit!

I cast my sensing spell. Someone was still nearby. I turned as a dark figure stepped from the shadows. My hands flew up in a knockback, cut short when I saw the scowling face of Bruyn’s older officer.

I glanced down at his shoes. Loafers. Dark soles. Damn.

“Breaking and entering is a crime, Miss Levine,” he said as he strode over to me.

I looked around at the shops, mostly vacant. “Breaking in ... where? And if I was, I wouldn’t park my bike under a streetlamp.”

His scowl deepened.

“I’m fixing it,” I waved at the tools still scattered around the bike. “The tire blew and they were keeping my bike here while I grabbed a new one from Vancouver. My bike. My tire. My tools. I didn’t break in anywhere.” Well, technically, I did, to get my bike, but I didn’t see the need to mention that.

“You shouldn’t be wandering around alone at night,” he said. “We’ve got a killer on the loose, who likes ’em young and pretty.” He smiled, as if imagining me lying inside a ring of crime-scene tape.

“I didn’t realize how late it’d gotten,” I said. “Thanks.”

I started back to my bike, then turned.

“Did you see anyone else out here?” I asked. “I could have sworn I heard footsteps just a minute ago. That’s why I was looking around.”

“Nobody but me. That’s the way it should be, this time of night.”

He stood watch while I packed up my gear. I thanked him for that, though I knew he was just doing it to make sure I left. And I did. With this cop on the lookout, I couldn’t exactly take off for Cody’s office on the far side of town. And my bruised body was telling me it was ready for bed.

Back at the motel, I grabbed a couple of cookies—one of Paige’s and one from the cult. Paige’s were better, but the others were decent enough. I was pulling off my clothes when my cell phone rang. “Break on Through,” which I’d set as Jesse’s ring tone.

“Yes, I know, it’s late,” he said when I answered. “Did I wake you up?”

“Nope. Just getting ready to turn in.”

“Good. I probably should have just texted, but I found something.” A pause. “Not that you can do anything about it tonight. Never mind. It can wait.”

“Oh, no you don’t. If it’s exciting enough to call me after midnight, I want to hear it.”

He paused. “Okay, so I was going through the files again, making notes, trying to find connections. You know that Alastair Koppel used to live in Columbus, right?”

“He went to high school here, but he never came back after college. His parents moved away ten years ago, when they retired. No other family in town.”

“You’ve done your homework then. Did you notice when he left?”

“Before—no, during college. He was going to college in Portland, so he commuted. That must not have worked out too well. In his third year, he moved out of his parents’ place. Or second year. People weren’t clear on that.”

“It was 1983.”

“Okay, 1983.”

“Anything else happen in 1983?”

“No idea. I wasn’t born.”

“But someone else was. And it seems someone on this investigation is a CSI fan.”

“What?”

“They went a little crazy gathering DNA. They got DNA profiles on Ginny, Brandi, Claire, and just about everyone questioned. Except Cody and his wife, who knew their rights and refused. When I was writing up the file, looking for connections, I saw one, and I faxed the profiles to a buddy to confirm. He just got back to me.”

He stopped. I could feel his excitement buzzing down the line.

“DNA ... 1983 ...” I said. “Shit ... 1983. The year both Ginny and Brandi were born. Our cult leader is Brandi’s father, isn’t he?”

“Not Brandi’s.”

“Ginny’s?”

“Yep. Seems Paula Thompson wasn’t exactly being honest when she said there was no connection between her daughter and Koppel. The cops never noticed it because, obviously, they were only holding the DNA profiles to compare to a potential suspect’s, not crossreferencing—”

My phone blipped, telling me I had an incoming text. It was from Michael.